Not Even Time
by naturegirlrocks
Summary: "In a blink of an eye John Watson had been gone without a trace. The dust on the floor was undisturbed. Sherlock had himself stood between the doctor and the door. Lestrade had been by the window. There had only been that statue of solid stone that seemed to move every time they looked away. That statue of the crying angel."


It moved.

Don't be silly.

But it did. Lestrade. Look.

My god you're right. The hands are different. But Sherlock, how can it move?

I don't know, but it did.

You don't know?

Wait, where is John?

He was right there...

It moved again.

When?

Right now. When we weren't looking.

:::::

It had been three months since John had disappeared. Exactly three months, ninety-two days, Sherlock kept count.

Funny thing, months, he thought. Three months could be ninety-two days. But three months could also be ninety-one days, and three out of four years three months could even be just ninety days. But this time it was ninety-two.

He was a total mess. He had lost over ten pounds from lack of sleep and food. His mind was jumbled, as if he lost his hold on logical reality. Mycroft had been talking about forcefully committing him, he had heard him downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's apartment after one of his and Lestrade's recurring drugs busts.

But he was not mad. How could he be? He was Sherlock Holmes! He was a genius and a master of deduction. His perceptions were perfect. But still, but still...

In a blink of an eye John Watson had been gone without a trace. The dust on the floor was undisturbed. Sherlock had himself stood between the doctor and the door. Lestrade had been by the window. There had only been that statue of solid stone that seemed to move every time they looked away. That statue of the crying angel.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up from his seat where he had been staring at the carpet. Lestrade was standing in the doorway to the apartment. He looked tired and was holding an envelope his right hand. The paper looked old, Sherlock observed. It was a strange object for the DI to be carrying around.

"Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked. "What has happened? Another disappearance from the house?"

"Yes," Lesteade shifted. "But this time..." he swallowed. "It's the statues that are gone. Every single one of them."

"The statues?" Sherlock frowned.

"Gone," Lesteade sat down on the armrest of the sofa, he was holding the letter between his hands. "It's like they never been there in the first place. And there is no traces of the missing people either."

Sherlock's curiosity took the upper hand of him and he looked at the envelope. It was defiantly old, more than fifty years, but even though its edges were worn, none of the usage was recent. Lestrade noticed Sherlock's eyes.

"This," he said, handing the letter to Sherlock. "This is another mystery. It was found in the archives of the British Royal Mail. Addressed to you."

"To me?" asked Sherlock, examining the yellowing paper.

"Yes, but Sherlock. Look at it."

Sherlock opened the letter, and for the first time, in a very long time, his heart skipped a beat. .

iSherlock

I never thought I would tell you this, and I guess I never will, but I miss you. More than words can say. I keep waiting for you to wake me up from this dream and drag me out to one of your crazy chases. I keep hoping this is a dream, but dreams don't last this long. And if I was dreaming I'm sure that you would be here because you're all I'm thinking of. I miss you.../i

Sherlock stopped reading and jumped to the end of the letter.

iJohn/i

:::::

It had taken one hundred and seventy five days. Nine of those days had been lost to Sherlock convincing Mycroft and two psychiatrists that he wasn't psychotic. Lestrade had been some help, though the policeman had had to tread more lightly not to get the same treatment by his superiors. But it had all been worth it. The two of them were now standing in a London back alley, outside a fifties blue police public call box.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade looked at the box.

"It wasn't here yesterday," Sherlock felt the smooth wood slide under his fingertips. "This must be it. Feel it. There's a small vibration,"

The D.I. put a hesitant forefinger on the box. He frowned. Sherlock knew the man was still struggling to believe. He himself had stopped his struggles the moment, two months ago, when he'd seen the blue box disappear into thin air by the banks of the river not far from the London Eye. Before that moment he had only his hope to go on.

It had been a strange feeling, living on hope. The hope that somewhere, sometime, there would be someone that could help him.

"Maybe it feels a ibit/i weird..." said Lestrade. "But where's he then?"

"He'll be here," Sherlock scanned the area with his keen eyes. "He will be here."

Sherlock took up the printout of a obituary from the library he had memorised and held so many times that the paper was soft like tissue. iDr. John Watson, London, dead in bombing. Twentieth of August, nineteen forty-four. Age forty-two./i

It was him, Sherlock was sure of it. It was his John. There where even evidence to support it. Sherlock remembered a childhood story about his grandfather having a doctor friend that was killed in the war. The printout told of John being friends with the Holmes family.

The letter, written by John one year after his arrival and one year before his death, spoke only of John's feelings, thoughts and how much he missed Sherlock. It had never been meant for the mail, it was a talisman that had been kept in a pocket.

"Two years," whispered Sherlock to himself.

Two years John had been lost in his time before he died. That was far longer than the nine months that Sherlock had gone without John.

On the day John had disappeared, Sherlock had finally come up with what to buy John for his upcoming fortieth birthday. And even though John had been gone, he had still bought it. An engraved stethoscope, it was still in the wrapped package under his bed.

"Excuse me?" a tall man in a long brown coat, blue striped suit and messy hair came walking up the alley. "Would you mind stepping back a bit? I need to get to my box."

"Your box?" asked Lestrade and held up his DI licence. "And who might you be?"

"Blue box inspector," said the man holding up a piece of paper. "And I need to inspect this one."

"There is nothing on that paper, Doctor," said Sherlock.

"There isn't?" Lestrade frowned.

"You obviously know who I am," said the man putting his paper away. "And you are a bit of a genius along with not being easily fooled."

"I might say the same for you, Doctor." Sherlock smiled, they were of the same hight. "I also know that you are not of this Earth, you have a time machine, you only use glasses when you think you will look cool, and though you have fondness for the old American West you like this century of London the most."

"Well, who wouldn't?" said the Doctor, putting his hands in his trouser-pockets and weighed on the heals of his trainers. "The twenty-first century is when it all happens. And who might you be?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock and put on his most serious voice. "I need you to take me to nineteen forty-four."

"iHolmes/i, Holmes. Although I gave heard a great deal of you, and I'm thrilled to meet you, really love a good mystery mind you, I'm not running a taxi service."

The Doctor tried to pass, but Sherlock put his hand on the door of the box, stopping the Doctor to get inside.

"Doctor, you were at the house with the moving stone angels six months ago, and you made them go away."

"Perhaps," the man raised an eyebrow. "Time is a bit hazy for me. Though you got my attention with the angels."

"A friend of mine..." Sherlock took a breath, suddenly feeling strangely sad. "My only friend... My best..."

He looked away, there was actually tears in his eyes. Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. To his surprise, Sherlock actually felt comforted by the touch. He but his lips together.

"The angels took your friend," said the Doctor with a sympathetic sigh. "To nineteen forty-four?"

"Actually to nineteen forty-two," Sherlock took a breath to compose himself. "But he died in... It's the only date we could find in which we can pinpoint him in time and place.

Again he felt overwhelmed by feelings that was so foreign to him.

"Look I'm sorry..." the Doctor began.

"Don't you tell me you are sorry and you that you can't," Sherlock grabbed hold of the man with pure anger. "I need him! He needs me! Don't you understand?! I love him! I love..."

Sherlock stood like a stone angel himself after this spontaneous and chocking announcement as he held on to the Doctor's coat.

"Sherlock!" called Lestrade, pulling Sherlock of the Doctor. "Behave!"

The Doctor adjusted his tie and pushed a hand through his charming mop of a hair.

"Steady on there, Shirley boy," he said. "I didn't mean that I couldn't take you. Just that exact dates and times isn't, hrm, my kind of... well... And sometimes the locations are a bit off... But, aw, what the heck. I give it a try for love, always a good reason that. I love doing things for love. That, and I like you."

He smiled like a loon. Sherlock nodded, still shocked over his own confession.

"I'll take what I can get. Please."

"Step into my office then," the Doctor opening the door to the blue box. "Are you coming as well Detective Inspector?"

"John is my friend too," said Lestrade. "I mean.. Obviously not on the same as Sherlock, which was quite a surprise... I mean... Look! I'm a police officer! People are missing!"

"Well that says it all then," said the Doctor and guided them through the door. "Welcome aboard the Tardis."

"It's bigger on the inside," gasped Lesteade.

"Relative dimensions," said Sherlock starring at what obviously was the controls, but looked like a mix between an old metal tree, a nuclear switch board and an giant illuminate squid.

"You really are a genius," said the Doctor, patting his back.

"And this is a time-machine?" Lestrade looked a bit pale as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm not to fall over.

"Absolutely!" grinned the man. "And a spaceship."

"Do try to keep up, Lestrade," said Sherlock.

"Well excuse me for believing in the laws of physics," breathed the DI.

"Poppycock!" said both Sherlock and Doctor at the same time, and then grinned at each other.

"Oh God," Lestrade sat down on the floor. "There's two of them."

"Now hang on to something!" called the Doctor. "We're off!"

He paused with his hands above the controls.

"By the way. Where are we going?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and showed the Doctor the tissue printout.

::::

"So..." Lestrade looked Sherlock over as they were changing their clothes to British second world war army uniforms. "Love?"

"It just came out that way," said Sherlock tying his khaki tie. "But I guess I do. I can't seem to function without him."

"I can see that," Lestrade pushed away Sherlock's hands and took over the tie-tying.

"Are you wearing a military police uniform?"

"Yes, Captain," Lestrade brushed Sherlock's shoulder straps. "Anyway, I have known you for five years longer than John, and I have never seen you as you are with him. If it is love then I'm happy for you."

"John isn't homosexual. He has obvious bisexual tendencies of course, though he's clearly in denial..." Sherlock half-smiled at Lestrade.

"Don't look at me that way," Lestrade jokingly patted Sherlock's cheek. "You cant tease me with that. I accepted imy tendencies/i a long time ago."

"I would offer you my brother's number, but I'm sure you already have it on speed dial."

"I'm a happily divorced man," Lestrade grinned. "Anyway, you read John's letter," he buttoned his own jacket. "He misses you. And you are travelling through time to save him. If that doesn't earn you at least a kiss I'll... Listen to me. I said 'travelling through time' like it was something normal."

"What isn't normal about it?" asked the Doctor peeking inside the wardrobe. "Everyone decent? Splendid! Please disembark the vehicle to the right."

"Are- are we there?" asked Lestrade. "In nineteen forty-four?"

"Absoloodylutely!" the Doctor grinned. "Mind you, I don't often go to this time. Too bomby, too muddy."

"Aren't you going to change?"

"I got new shoes."

"Those are Converse," said Sherlock. "Though the company was founded in nineteen oh-five and that particular design was established in nineteen twenty-six, that model and material was first introduced in nineteen seventy-six, and then as a shoe for professional tennis players exclusively in America."

"Blimy, Shirley. I bet you are a hoot at shopping sprees. Come on! Disembarkation! I love that word!"

The three of them walked over to the doors and the Doctor peaked out. Then he said 'Ah' closed the door very fast again. The next moment something sounding like a rain of hail struck the door.

"What is that?" asked Lestrade.

"Bullets," said the Doctor running over to the controls. "Slight miscalculation. It's kind of Lipzeig and not London."

"i'Kind of Leipzig'/i?"

"Well, technically, it iis/i Leipzig," the Doctor hurried over to the controls to restart the engine.

"It's nineteen forty-four and you take an English police telephone box to the middle of Germany? And how could we even get there? We where in London to start with!"

"He is very fussy your friend."

"I tend to agree with him on this," said Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

"Huh. No pleasing some people."

::::

"Are you sure this is right?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock wanted to ask the same question. But he recognised the Doctor as a greater genius than himself, and was determined not to lower himself more in the Doctor's eyes. Therefore he left all stupid questions to Lestrade.

There was another reason why Sherlock missed John: the man wasn't afraid to ask stupid questions. Sherlock never asked a stupid question, even if he sometimes needed them answered. He noted it down on his mental map over the things he liked about John.

"Yup," the Doctor pointed to a screen. "British flag and all. And for your pleasure, gentlemen, the right date. Ooh, I'm good!"

"What to get it right in the second try?" Lestrade squinted at the screen. "Is that how you usually do it?"

"You got a lot of attitude for someone who only known about time-travel for a few hours."

"I work with him," said Lestrade and pointed at Sherlock, "It comes with the job. And you got it wrong the last time."

They stepped out if the box and looked around. It was the dead of night. The box was parked in an nook between two big buildings.

"That's Whitehall," said Lestrade in awe. "We are just beside the war office."

"I am so good," gloated the Doctor strutting a little on the pavement.

"What date is it?" asked Sherlock, taking in the surroundings.

Downing Street, guards, lights out, clear evening sky, giant balloons in the sky, and a drunk couple; the woman was a professional and the man was from RAF on leave...

"Twentieth of August," said the Doctor proudly.

"But it's passed six, and no bombs are falling."

"Oh?" the Doctor put his glasses on, and looked at the sky. "Hm."

He ran back to the Tardis. Sherlock and Lestrade watched the drunk couple go by. Sherlock derived that the girl was going to take everything the poor man owned, but probably still leave him quite satisfied. Sherlock looked at Lestrade.

"Did you mean what you said before?" he asked.

"What?"

"About John being thankful enough to kiss me."

"Sherlock, iI/i would kiss you if you saved me from being lost in time and from being killed in a Blitz bombing."

"I don't believe that."

"I swear that I at least would hug you very tightly," said Lestrade with half a smile. "Maybe even for five whole seconds."

"Sounds more like you."

"Ah," the Doctor came out from the Tardis again. "Nineteen forty-three."

"You got it wrong second time as well?"

The Doctor ignored the D.I.

"So we are one year early?" asked Lestrade with a sigh. "Won't we disturb some timeline or something?"

"Not necessarily," the Doctor took a few jumps as if to test the gravity. "Time is very wobbly-wibbly. Unless you want to try to jump one more year. It would only take a moment."

"And would probably end up in the middle of Berlin," muttered Lestrade.

"But it would be a whole year for him," said Sherlock with a frown. "It would be about now he writes that letter... Doctor, you are sure we're not changing the future?"

"Your friend was not supposed to be here in the first place," the Doctor shrugged. "I believe, and I'm usually right about these things, that the vital point in time was that he wrote that letter so that we could find him. Other than that he is just... waiting for you, I guess."

"How do we find him?"

"If he is working as a medical doctor, there would very possibly be a record in Whitehall," said Lestrade. "But it's late. Most of them have gone home by now."

"Shall I take us just a few hours forward then?" asked the Doctor, who was casually leaning against his box.

"What's the fun in that?" asked Sherlock.

"I knew I liked you," the Doctor grinned. "I'm sure I saw a back-door around here the last time."

Sherlock made a move to follow, but Lestrade grabbed hold if his arm.

"Can we please, please, just try the front door first?"

"A bit boring, isn't he?" asked the Doctor.

"He can't help it," sighed Sherlock. "Although he iis/i the least idiotic person within the Scotland Yard."

"I always choose the least idiotic ones too. They usually work out very well."

Lestrade gave them both an evil look that immediately made them speed up their steps to the front door. He held up the door for them.

"Thank you," he said in a strained voice.

Inside there was a desk with a very young sergeant sitting by it. Two other soldiers, both corporals, stood a bit further off talking in low voices. Sherlock looked the three men over as he walked, and took a bit of interest in knowing that human behaviour wouldn't change much in the coming sixty-nine years. The sergeant rose to his feet as he saw Sherlock.

"Can I help you, Captain?" he asked.

"I'm looking for a medical doctor," said Sherlock broadening his private school accent. "And before you tell me where the hospital is, I'll say I'm looking for a particular medical doctor."

"I'm sure we can help you captain..." the sergeant glanced over Sherlock's shoulder at Lestrade's MP armband. "But it's after office hours..."

"You know, I don't like to be kept waiting."

"He really doesn't," said the Doctor, who had put on his glasses again.

"And you are, sir?"

"John Smith, I'm no one, so you better forget me."

"Sir?"

"Forget him," said Sherlock. "That is an order. Now show me to the medical staff files."

"I... I..." the sergeant looked bewildered.

"Anything we can help you with, Sarge?" asked one of the corporals closing in.

Sherlock watched as the young man's face turning white and then pink. It was obvious that he was bullied for his youth and far too quick promotion. He probably had a father high up, likely a general since the bulling was very subtle. The boy was also a desk-jockey who had never seen battle.

"Yes," said Sherlock turning to the private. "Coffee, black, two sugars."

"No sugar in mine," said Lestrade.

"I'll have tea, half milk," said the Doctor investigating an empty wall at close range. "Is there's chance for a bickie? I'm starving,"

The Doctor pulled out a small alien-looking flashlight from his inner pocket, it started to hum as it was directed at the wall. The soldier looked at them, blinked and then straightened up.

"I see what I can do," he said in a strained voice and left.

"Now, sergeant," said Sherlock. "If you could find that file for me. The name of the man I'm looking for is John Hamish Watson."

"Oh," said the sergeant.

"'Oh'?" said the Doctor, turning from the wall. "I don't like it when they say 'oh'. That's usually a bad thing."

"No, sir, not at all," the sergeant hurried to say. "I will go and get that file for you. Just one moment. Wait here."

The young man scurried off. The remaining soldier looked a little confused but stayed manning the desk. Sherlock moved back to the Doctor.

"Something is afoot," he said.

"I'd say so," nodded the Doctor. "You see that wall?"

"It's freshly painted, about nine hours."

"Yes," the Doctor glanced at Sherlock. "You have actually watched paint dry, haven't you? So that you can know these things."

"It was a quite a fulfilling week," said Sherlock. "Though mother didn't like the garden-shed purple and yellow."

"Strange woman," mused the Doctor. "But this wall has been painted five times the last month. I'm all for tidy war offices, well, if there has to be war offices, that is, but this is a little too much."

Sherlock looked back at the desk were Lestrade was talking with the remaining soldier. He noticed him making a pointing movement to where the sergeant had gone.

A new tension in the D.I.'s back told Sherlock that he had found something out.

"What?" Sherlock asked in a raised voice.

"Sh..." Lestrade began but corrected himself. "Captain, the sergeant, his name was Holmes."

"Mycroft Holmes?" asked Sherlock in surprise, trying to place the face of the young man to his own memories.

"Yes, sir," the soldier nodded.

"Damn!" Sherlock wished he had his riding crop so that he could hit something. "That I didn't recognise him!"

"Relation of yours?" asked the Doctor.

"Grandfather's youngest brother," Sherlock looked around. "He was fifty-five when I was born, but I've seen pictures. My older brother was named after him."

"Should we go after him?" asked Lestrade.

"He will be back," said Sherlock. "And anyway, I know where he lives."

At that moment the first corporal came back with a tray with three cups and a biscuit. The Doctor took the biscuit and popped it in his mouth. He then took his cup of tea in one hand and his noisy flashlight in the other and started examining the wall again.

"What's he hoping to find?" asked Lestrad

"Something to occupy himself with," said Sherlock smelling his cup of coffee. "He doesn't like waiting and is bored... This is real coffee. How did you get it? Black market?"

"The Americans brought it," said the corporal defensively.

At that moment the sergeant returned, this time Sherlock took an even closer look at him. There were obvious traces of uncle Mycroft there, like before a grape turned into a raisin.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he said. "Medic Watson has recently been deployed abroad."

"I don't think so, because you just talked to him on the phone," Sherlock did an internal smirk as his great-uncle blinked. "May I ask why you are concerned that we are going to arrest him? Has he done something that he shouldn't be doing?"

"N-no,"Mycroft Holmes looked panicked in a way his namesake never would allow himself to look.

"Aha!" triumphed the Doctor, making all the men in the room jump.

"What?" asked Lestrade.

His hand was on his gun, latest semi-automatic standard police issue two-thousand and twelve. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question, Lesteade gave half a shrug that he could care less.

"Hello," smiled he Doctor to Mycroft. "Remember me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Wrong answer," the Doctor handed his now empty teacup to the nearest corporal and held up his piece of paper. "John Smith, health and safety. I want to look at your wires."

"My what, sir?"

"Wires, not yours of course, unless..." the Doctor moved his whiny flash light over Mycroft. "No, you're fine. I want to look at the house wires."

"Excuse me," said a sharp voice from the stairs that made all of them look up. "On who's authority?"

Sherlock looked up to a face that he had never seen in real life but instantly recognised from a big painting hanging in his father's office. His own great name-giver Sherlock Holmes, major-general, one of the founders of MI5, the young sergeant Mycroft Holmes's father and his own great-grandfather

::::::

"I have met John Watson," said Sherlock senior as he watched the Doctor tare one of the Whitehall fuse boxes apart.

Earlier the Doctor had from his coat, with a flair that even impressed Sherlock, taken out a genuine note of permission to do 'what ever the bugger-hell' he wanted. It was signed by Winston Churchill.

"Actually, I owe him a great debt of gratitude," the major-general continued. "About a year ago my oldest son, Laurel, was driving his wife the hospital when the car stalled. She had gone into labour but there was something wrong and was in danger of dying. From nowhere, my son says, this fellow Watson shows up, saves Mary and delivers the baby."

"That sounds like our John," nodded Sherlock.

"When it turns the man is a drifter my son lets him stay in one of the guest rooms and take care of Mary..." he glanced at Sherlock. "I always suspected him being a army deserter. He has a scar on his shoulder from a gunshot and he has several signs of fox-hole-sickness..."

"What?" asked Ledtrade.

"Post-traumatic stress," said Sherlock.

"I was going to report him..." the older man hesitated, looking a bit conflicted. "But... Please go easy on us. He did save the life of my daughter-in-law and my grandson..."

"Aha!" exclaimed the Doctor holding up a green glowing diod. "Got you!"

"What is it?" asked the major-general.

"A bug," said the Doctor putting it in his pocket.

"A bug? Is it the Gerrys?"

"A bit further of," said the Doctor, putting the fuses back in order.

"The Japs?"

"About Watson," interrupted Sherlock stepping forward. "I would very much like to see him now."

"Yes," his great-grandfather sighed. "I will call my man and he'll drive us."

"You mean your son," said Sherlock.

"Nothing wrong with a little nepotism. He is a brilliant boy, more intelligent than some of my best men, but he wouldn't survive a day in battle."

They followed the man upstairs. Sherlock smiled at the thought that sergeant Mycroft Holmes would be snatched up by the CIA five years after the war and would become one of their best operatives. Not that he would know anything about that, not being part of the secret service part of the family.

"That was a real bug," said Sherlock.

"The Myclaca bug," said the Doctor. "Not the most terrifying of aliens I admit, but it would have eaten through the copper lines within a week. And their gasses chips paint."

"Was it just the one?" asked Lestrade.

"You know," the Doctor looked him over. "Was just thinking about that. Care to help me look for some more while Sherlock is collecting his little partner?"

"Me?" Lestrade starred at him. "Why?"

"I like having sassy young helpers around," the Doctor smiled. "I'm kind of like Santa in that way."

"I'm forty-five."

"I'm nine hounded and seven."

"Well, I'm not sassy."

"They way you move tells me another story."

Lestrade starred at him, the Doctor gave him a smile and a wink.

"Go on with him," said Sherlock bumping Lestrade's arm. "He likes you."

"You say that like it's a good thing..."

"I'll be back in a few hours," Sherlock looked at his watch. "The Holmes estate is not far outside town."

"Estate?" echoed Lestrade in a irritated voice.

"Give me your phone," said the Doctor.

Sherlock did so and the Doctor moved his light over it.

"Call me when you want a pick up," he said.

:::::

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir" said Sherlock to the major-general as they travelled through the summer evening in a black Rolls Royce, young Mycroft at the wheel.

"I was on my way home anyway, Captain..." he frowned. "I never asked your name."

"Holmes, sir. No relation."

"That is a damn coincidence," he narrowed his eyes. "You are not Eunice's boy? You have something..."

"My mother's name is Estelle, sir," said Sherlock. "And I do believe you are under a misconception that I'm going to arrest Dr Watson for desertion."

"I was a little confused when you left your police companion behind..."

"Sir, I assure you that you are in no trouble harbouring a deserter. Dr Watson was dismissed with honours."

"Then why haven't he told us so in a whole bloody year?"

"Perhaps he thought the truth only would be more disturbing."

Sherlock didn't say any more and the major-general didn't ask. The road was bumpy, it wouldn't be cemented with asphalt for at least twenty years. Sherlock hadn't been to the house for over five years, he wondered if this counted since it was sixty-four years earlier than last time.

It was dark when they rolled into the stone gravel of the parkway. Up ahead there was light. The front door was open. A man was standing in the doorway, moving nervously. Sherlock took a breath as he recognised the shape.

As the car moved to a standstill two other people, a man and a woman, came out through the door, but Sherlock only had eyes for John. He opened the door the moment the car stopped moving and got out.

"Oh fuck," said John, which made the woman behind him gasp. "Sherlock!"

"Your name is Sherlock too?" asked the major-general.

"Coincidence."

Sherlock couldn't help himself as he ran towards John, grabbed him in his arms, lifted him slightly of the ground and pressed their lips together. If John was taken aback, he hid it well because he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and answered the kiss in same vigour.

"You came for me," John gasped as their lips parted and his feet was on the ground.

"Time is a trifle," said Sherlock, happy that he got his anticipated kiss.

"Sorry," breathed John. "I didn't mean to kiss you like that. I just missed you..."

"Don't worry," smiled Sherlock. "I meant to kiss you."

"What about your work?"

"It won't work without you." Sherlock suddenly realised that everything he said was true. "What about you not being gay?"

"I guess I'm cured," John laughed. "I also had lot of time to think and to miss you...You have lost weight."

"I didn't have you to feed me."

"Hrm," behind Sherlock the major-general cleared his throat. "So this was your secret," he said. "I can see why you wanted to hide it."

Both of them turned to look at him. Sherlock's brain came back online as he remembered that being gay was still going to be illegal for the next twenty-four years.

"Well, sir," he said stepping away from John but still standing close and holding his hand. "It seems that you have the upper hand now. Though I doubt you are going to report us. And by the way, I know you also have things to hide."

Sherlock senior stiffened, he glanced back on young Mycroft that had come out of the car and stood awkwardly behind him. Sherlock remembered that he as a child had heard the hushed whispers about uncle Mycroft living with a male Soviet agent that he had helped to defect.

"Oh John!" the woman in the by the door hurried forwards. "I'm so happy for you. Didn't I say he was coming for you?"

She was holding a small child in her arms, but still embraced John. Sherlock felt a bit amused over seeing his otherwise intimidating father as a rather confused and drooling one year-old. He committed the image to memory.

"Come inside," said the woman taking Sherlock by the arm. "Let's don't stand out here in the dark. Any friend of John's is our friend."

Sherlock let his grandmother guide him in to the house. He had never met her, having been born just two weeks after her accidental death being hit by a car.

"Thank you, mrs Holmes,"

"But how did you get here?" asked John. "I don't even understand how I did."

"I have friends with resources," Sherlock smiled, looking around the familiar, but still different hallway. "Speaking of which..."

He pulled up his phone and looked up Doctor's sixteen-digit number.

i"What?! Me? Wha- Hello?"/i

"Lestrade?"

"Lestrade?" echoed John.

i"Sherlock! If you ever leave me alone with this man again I'm going t- Doctor! Look out! Your left! Your other left! Fuck! How am I- Talk to you later!"/i the call disconnected.

"Hm," Sherlock put the phone away. "Our ride seems to be delayed in picking us up."

As he said so he realised that he was waiting for a time machine. It could arrive the next second or it had arrived even before he had made the call. He followed his grandparents in to the downstairs parlour were tea already had been served.

"You brought Greg?" asked John.

"Who?" said Sherlock warily eyeing the baby that just had been placed on a blanket on the floor. "I brought Lestrade."

He noticed John do an eye roll. They had still not let go of each others hands. Sherlock wondered if he ever wanted to let go.

"Tea, captain Holmes?" asked his grandmother.

He noticed that her eyes had the exact same shape as his brother, he smiled. The smiled echoed slightly that of his grandfather who was sitting politely by, and waiting for his turn to be served.

"Black, please," said Sherlock.

"Your father wasn't named Herman?" said the major-general, his forehead in folds.

Herman was the major-general's brother that hade died at the battle of Somme at the age of eighteen. Sherlock smirked, if he ihad/i been fathered by Herman, it would brave been when the man was twelve.

"My father's name is Paul," said Sherlock taking the cup that was offered to him with his left hand.

The small boy on the floor made a happy giggle as he heard his name and began fisting his mouth. Sherlock smiled, he would be able to live of this for years of excruciating Christmas dinners.

:::

Ten minutes later, during which Sherlock had convinced his grandparents that he was a fortune teller, his father that he was the best thing happening to babies since the rattle, his great-grandfather that he possibly was a German spy and John that he was a impossible show off, there was a knock on the door.

A moment later Lestrade and the Doctor were shown inside the parlour. Lestrade was wearing a very smart contemporary suit and the Doctor looked like he always did, except for his hair being slightly more unruly.

"Greg!" said John, getting up from his seat and hugging the detective inspector. "I can't believe you are here."

"Oh," Lestrade hugged tightly him back. "I have stopped believing a long time ago. Makes it a hell of a lot easier to cope. Good to see you."

"Hi!" said the Doctor giving John's hand a quick squeeze. "I'm the Doctor. I'm not running a taxi service, but I'm still your ride home."

"Th- thank you," John stammered.

"Hello," The Doctor went down on one knee and shook baby Paul's hand. "Well, thank you very much, they are new."

He got up and grinned at Sherlock.

"He likes my shoes."

"I'll buy him a pair for his seventieth birthday," said Sherlock and got to his feet.

"Are you leaving so soon?" asked Mrs. Holmes a little distressed. "It is late, we can arrange for you to stay the night."

"Thank you, Mary," said Sherlock and reached out for John, who let himself be pulled to Sherlock's side. "But it's time to leave."

"Oh," she have a disappointed smile. "But you must come back to visit soon."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded and glanced at the Doctor, but then leaned forward and placed kiss on her forehead. "Always look both ways before crossing a street."

She blinked in confusion.

"John?" said Sherlock, squeezing his hand.

"Yes," John nodded.

He had tears in his eyes as he hugged Mary Holmes and her family.

::::

"How the devil did this get here?" asked the major-general starring at the blue police box.

"No time to explain," the Doctor walked passed him. "Well, I have all time to explain, but I don't want to. Ask Torchwood."

"Oh," Sherlock senior smiled like all his life's questions had been answered at once. "You are from that lot are you? No wonder you are all mad."

"Thank you," the Doctor grinned and entered the Tardis, pushing Lestrade in before him.

"We're all going in there?" asked John with a frown. "All four of us?" he was holding a small leather-bag in his arms.

"Don't worry," said Sherlock. "You'll fit." He turned back to his great-grandfather. "A pleasure meeting you, sir. You are an inspiration to us all."

"I wonder that," huffed the major-general. "Now what is this contraption?"

"Wait and see," Sherlock winked and closed the door.

He turned to find John sitting on the floor, looking in much the same way Lestrade had done his first time in the Tardis. The Doctor was running around the controls.

"Dematerialising!" shouted the vibrant man. "Next stop Baker Street!"

"Stop!" called Sherlock hurrying forward. "Not yet!"

"Huh?" asked the Doctor.

"John?" Sherlock took hold of the shorter man. "Do you have the letter?"

"The letter that you wrote me," he fumbled in his pocket, brought up the yellowed paper, and showed John.

John blinked in amazement. With trembling hands he reached into his bag and pulled out a tied up bundle of at least fifty letters. Sherlock smiled, John blushed.

"I missed you so much."

"Doctor?" said Sherlock without looking away from his partner's clear eyes.

"Royal Mail coming up," called the Doctor with a grin.

:::;;;;;

"Thank you, Doctor," said Sherlock shaking the man's hand. "For everything."

"My pleasure," the Doctor grinned. "I have a feeling we'll meet again. At least when I return Gregory to you."

The Doctor patted Lestrade on the back.

"What?" Lestrade splurted. "I'm not coming with you. You are too dangerous for my sanity."

"So you don't care about the five other people that the Crying Angels took away?" asked the Doctor, looking him over with a hint of puppy-eyes. "You don't want to see if they are okay? We might even be able to save one of them."

"Fuck!" cursed the D.I. and grumpily got back inside the Tardis. "Sherlock," he called over his shoulder. "Don't do anything too bloody stupid while I'm gone!"

Sherlock gave an affronted huff, but kept quiet.

"Thank you," said John, also shaking the Doctor's hand. "Though the word is a little to small for what I'm feeling right now."

"No problem, Doctor Watson. I'm here to help. Well, not always, but mostly, once in a while. Anyway! Good luck, chaps!"

Sherlock and John stood back as the blue box disappeared.

"Hm," said Sherlock, looking down at his phone.

"What?" asked John taking his hand.

"We are back two days before I left," he smiled. "We need to keep away from public, or I'll find us."

"There is a hotel not far from here," John said casually. "I hear they have great room service."

The End.


End file.
